Numbered, Weighed, Divided
by Night Strider
Summary: Mitsui's philandering is wearing thin. He goes around dating Kanagawa boys one by one on a day to day basis but is still frustrated by the refusal of this cute someone whom he likes above all. DISCONTINUED
1. Default Chapter

Numbered, Weighed, Divided

Disclaimer: I don't own SD boys, Inoue does. The events that follow are not included in the original plot but enjoy anyway. (Hindi ako ang nagmamayari ng mga tauhan ng SD, si Inoue ang gumawa sa kanila. Ang mga sumusunod na pangyayari ay hindi kasama sa tunay na istorya pero magsaya ka na lang sa pagbabasa '--')

Disclaimer 2; Title's not mine, too.

Summary: Mitsui's philandering is wearing thin. He goes around dating Kanagawa boys one by one on a day to day basis but is still frustrated by the refusal of this cute someone whom he likes above all. For Kitsune-11.

Chapter 1

Monday. 4:30 in the afternoon. Tom's Diner, T Street.

'This is the life,' Mitsui's lips break into an idle grin as he languidly puts an arm around his companion's shoulder. Practice has just ended and there's nothing more refreshing than a warm coffee break on a regular orange sundown. Add to that the company of a cute, multi-talented guy from Shoyo High to whom indifferent heads are automatically turned upon passing by the airy progress of his fleet footed strides. The big time, glance-snatching golden boy who parades with all kinds of idolatrous glorification is no doubt the subject of petty chatter among school girls who just love to watch basketball and, well, boys. Queer ones.

'I say yes. Didn't I tell you this is the best place to relax?' Kenji Fujima leans his tilting head just an inch below the other's chin and rests it against the latter's sloping chest. From under the table, he slowly feels in for Mitsui's fingers, finds them, and holds them firmly against his palm. There they are; coiled up in an inseparable skein like there'll be no tomorrow and perhaps, there won't be for both of them.

'Right. How's school, anyway?' Mitsui asks him in a saccharine flavored all-smiles.

'Nothing new. This and that, I guess.' Fujima answers, slightly looking up to direct his gaze.

'No offers?'

'From Hanagata. I said I was expected to be home early.'

'He wouldn't budge, would he?' Mitsui smiles even more widely, a glint of pride blazes on the facets of his sapphire blue pupils.

'Hisashi, you know how crazy this guy for me is, don't you?'

'I can imagine. Gives me a kick smirking at him. hahaha,' Mitsui laughs at the thought of Hangata's jaundiced reaction. How lucky he is to own Fujima's proximity. He alone does so.

For awhile, both stare blankly outside the window, squinting at an unseen wonder romping beyond the glass. But all there is are the swaying of leaves, the empty quibbling of strangers, the twinkling starlight, the buzzing of the cars' tired engines, the trembling moonlight---all seem to concord with the lofty feelings of desire swelling inside them. Those succulent wells of memories overflowing with their own fantasies are now manifest in the very existence of their joy, their togetherness, their comfort, their untroubled moments, and of Fujima's unstained fidelity. All these he loves but loves them less than Hisashi Mitsui himself. How ironic things are.

'Hisashi?'

'Yes?'

'I love you very much.'

'I love you, too.'

Earlier that day.8:30 in the morning, Shohoku practice gym.

'You free later, Rukawa?' Mitsui asks the freshman. Both are virtually slathered in heavy sweat owing to Akagi's order to cover 20 laps. You could only bet that bleeds them dry, not to mention brings them to prodigious exhaustion and disconcertion.

'No,' Rukawa answers with his jaw in a godawful jut; even in that lanky state, he remains obstinately sturdy and cold. He's in a pretty delicate stage to pounce around a little bit more and not even Hisashi Mitsui's charms can sway him. But what the hell, he's never into Mitsui anyway.

'Tomorrow, then?'

'No.' Rukawa replies in the same refractory dismissive-ness.

'Day after tomorrow?'

'No, no, and no. Not ever.' Rukawa gibes, hitting the other's sore spot.

'What the fuck's with you, anyway? Nose up, huh, full moon's blastin' you again, Mr. Werewolf?' Mitsui scoffs. He can easily dredge up the right words to make Rukawa's day, and how he likes it when he snorts.

'Do'ahou.'

'It's just a fucking date, Rukawa. For Pete's sake, I'm not goin' to rape you,' Mitsui plugs in. It can have resulted in a loud spark but Rukawa straightens up and clops down across the floor to leave Mitsui. The latter sits derelict and dumbfounded by his own revolting audacity. 'Oh well, guess I'll have to try harder next time...' he says to himself, then, a sudden wave of fury sweeps him stiff...'Nobody rejects Hisashi Mitsui. Those who dare remain fucked up all their lives...and soon you will be, Kaede Rukawa.'

TBC 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I don't own SD boys, Inoue does. The events that follow are not included in the original plot but enjoy anyway. (Hindi ako ang nagmamayari ng mga tauhan ng SD, si Inoue ang gumawa sa kanila. Ang mga sumusunod na pangyayari ay hindi kasama sa tunay na istorya pero magsaya ka na lang sa pagbabasa '--')

Warning: F words all over at the end. No censor.

A/N: Didn't have much time to work on this so expect some errors; grammar, typos, spellings, quotations, punctuations, whatever...

Tuesday, 6:30 PM. Kanagawa Park

'Enjoying yourself?' Shinichi Maki asks Hisashi Mitsui who deliberately misses the afternoon's practice to meet up with him. This day is theirs alone; Mitsui has long fixed the sched and nothing's going on their way. Perfectly clean. No strings attached. Just the two of them under the pale moonlight, savoring the glucose-filled zephyr that comes crashing against their young countenance.

'Yeah, beautiful,' Mitsui answers, watching the city lights from below.

'A perfect time to scrape by, isn't it?' Maki teases.

'Huh?'

'I know you didn't go to practice,' Maki confirms, still smiling.

'Oh, that. hahaha...Well, I said I was helping mom.' Mitsui reciprocates the other's wistful smile. 'How's school?'

'Same. Practice hard for an easy win.' Maki answers.

'I see.'

They watch as moments transform to minutes and minutes drift to hours. The city lights below glimmer like fireflies scattering their glowing juices in a weightless void while no glitches mingle with the 'patternless' array of stars above them. This makes them feel pinned between heaven and heaven; wherever they turn, there's happiness in which all repercussions make their way to Shinichi Maki and Hisashi Mitsui. Everything exists for them; the privacy, the sought silence, the mundane space hovering above--

'Hisashi?'

'Yes?'

'I love you very much.'

'I love you, too.'

Earlier that day, 7:15, morning practice in Shohoku Gym.

'Rukawa?' Mitsui calls to Rukawa who doesn't return a single twitch. It's plain that he's on a roll; slamming his 6th sky-high one handed 360 in 2 minutes, it's almost impossible to interject with his concentration. 'RUKAWA!'

The whole team looks questioningly at Mitsui who smiles back apologetically and mechanically turns to Rukawa,

'Rukawa, one word, please.' He says in a good-natured tone; Rukawa remains poker faced.

'Sempai?' He asks after dropping the ball on the floor.

'Sorry.' Mitsui gags, looking like a complete imbecile with his haggard arms folded across his chest and lips pouting like a maniac.

'What about?' Rukawa's brows furrow in confusion; he's forgotten about yesterday's commotion as usual.

'Yesterday' Mitsui answers blandly, suddenly flashing his super-powered mega handsome smile.

Callous Rukawa just nods, gesticulating 'oh, that' and starts to walk away.

'Wait,'

'What, sempai?' Rukawa shrugs, failing to hoodwink his loathsome irritation.

'Er, will you come now?' Mitsui says, spouting off where he really wants it to go.

'No.' Rukawa replies in recalcitrant flatness. For the second time, he tunes out on Hisashi Mitsui.

'When will you, then?' Mitsui asks rashly, quite aware now that it's a clear-cut no.

'Never.' Rukawa says tersely, probably equipped with the intention to burst the other's bubble.

'You've got enough loads of gripes to be a fucking whiner, Rukawa. Stop being a boner for once.'

'I'm not. You are.'

'Fuck off and go out with me, will you?' Mitsui snarls.

'I said no. You dumb, sempai?' Rukawa says, his expression bordering between ocean deep disdain and utter disgust.

'I'm not. You are.' Mitsui retorts in a feigned aplomb. He himself can't match Rukawa's sarcasm; he simply can't overcome him. Rukawa walks out on him again.

Mitsui becomes altogether inarticulate, smattering horrific curses and wringing his hands; only his anger reigns within him now. 'He? Say fucking no to me! Fuck him! Fuck him right between the eyes! Nobody ever says no to Hisashi Mitsui without getting himself enough hell! I'm making him eat a swamp of shit and yes, he's saying yes to me! His heart rate simultaneously drops under par with his blood pressure's tremendous explosion, causing the latter to reach the scale's apex. Before he knows it, his complexion is toying among the shades of pink, red, and purple and his face contorting in a monstrous form. Yeah, handsome people hate being rejected.

TBC 


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 Disclaimer: I don't own SD boys, Inoue does. The events that follow are not included in the original plot but enjoy anyway. (Hindi ako ang nagmamayari ng mga tauhan ng SD, si Inoue ang gumawa sa kanila. Ang mga sumusunod na pangyayari ay hindi kasama sa tunay na istorya pero magsaya ka na lang sa pagbabasa '--')

Disclaimer 2: Title's not mine, too. It's from the Bible so don't fine me.

Disclaimer 3: Seattle Supersonics and Ray Allen don't belong to me, I only wish they do so don't sue me.

A/N: If this rocks, then review me, if this sucks, then flame and blame me but don't file libel against me.

Sexual innuendos within the context are independently inspired by read literature and NOT at all based on personal experience so don't make a jailbait out of me. I'm not a perv, okay? Or at least I think I'm not. Geeesh...

Warning: Some filthy words may not be suitable for NICE audience so take special caution.

Characters may seem OOC too, so try to find a way to bear with this problem.

--

Wednesday. 7:30 PM. Sportswear outlet at Y mall.

'Slip in to one of those. They look good to me.' Mitsui points at a throng of bumpy-looking NBA jerseys that lifelessly fling on some untouched wardrobe hangers.

'This one?' Akira Sendoh picks up one that shows a large patch of Seattle Supersonics emblem sewn with the number 34.

'Yeah, whatever. Go try it on.'

'OK,' Sendoh smiles casually and disappears behind the fitting room's heavily draped curtains. After a minute and twelve seconds he re-emerges to the scene donned fashionably in awesome sports get-up. Fully furnished with sporty majesty and well built frame, girl magnet Akira Sendoh gives the store's erstwhile detached customers plenty to gawk at; Ray Allen's vintage basketball uniform looks exceptionally good on him that even the world's greatest dope can't remain clipped looking at him. He's just too bewitching, too beautiful.

'Er, you look nice, (Terribly nice)' Mitsui gapes, seeming to echo what's on the other customers' mind. Even this regular playboy can be awestruck by Sendoh in no time flat alright.

'Really? Don't I look a little scrawny with this neckline on?' Sendoh asks, clutching the shirt's outer lining.

'Not at all. Looks good. Go get it.' Mitsui protests gently.

'Alright,' Sendoh agrees as he dumps the shirt on the counter and cashes in a $23 bill. He's a fully loaded guy, satisfying his caprice right away even if takes squandering tons of dimes.

After moving out of the store,

'I hope Taoka isn't giving you hell,' Mitsui gives a start.

'Since when? His dotage's luggin' us fright all the time and he becomes, well, a little bit off each day.' Sendoh complains in a half smiling expression. This is what Mitsui loves about him; his knack of throwing wisecraks despite the difficult times.

'Oh. And taking it easy, are you?'

'Just when you pulled me out from his fiery pits. You're the only who can make me forget about practice hell, you know,'

'Yeah. So he's really into this day to day torture, isn't he?' Mitsui asks.

'Natch. Taoka sees us as fuel powered androids whom he can subject anytime to a forced labor with a ball and sneakers. Really awful.' Sendoh explains.

'Forget about it for the time,' Mitsui decides to drop Taoka's subject. 'I hope you're having a good time,' Mitsui says heartily (Oh, cheese), coddling up the younger boy with his oh so cogent words.

'Oh yeah.' Sendoh smiles.

Walking together is like tugging the spotlight on you in a championship. No, not just that. It's like hitting a buzzer beater fade away from down town that overturns the crowd into frenzy as the scoreboard unveils the match's victor. This is how Akira Sendoh and Hisashi Mitsui feel together; the winners of the barely made it match, its irrefutably praiseworthy heroes. Though not at all legit, their hidden agenda to rendezvous in a sportswear outlet in Y mall is all that matters to them 'secret lovers', as we put them. For some reason, their affair is highly clandestine; Mitsui of course doesn't own Ryonan's ace, Hiroaki Koshino does, and Sendoh of course isn't Mitsui's sole possessor, Kaede Rukawa is. Inferentially, we can term them, in a more appropriate manner, as 'cheating lovers', or in all candor, 'foul philanderers'.

'Hisashi?'

'Yes?'

'I love you very much.'

'I love you, too.'

Earlier that day, 8:30 in the morning, Shohoku locker room.

Mitsui struggles not to look at Rukawa as he gears up to his school uniform. In fact, he resolves to ignore him for the whole of the day so as not to arouse the petulance of his mood.

'Who the fuck does he think he is? Prancing in front of me like an amazing jackanape in a jersey? Nobody does this to Hisashi Mitsui or he's fucked forever,' Mitsui mutters to himself imprudently.

'Mitchy, are you okay?' Sakuragi asks him suddenly. He's sitting an inch away from Mitsui.

'Oh, er, nothing. I'm just a little loose today...don't worry, I'll get by,' Mitsui strives to find the right expletive but fails to quench the other's curiosity nonetheless.

'You just sounded like you want to send someone to the gallows. Who exactly are you brushing up against with lately?'

'No one.' Mitsui lies. Damn, why can't people leave me alone with Rukawa for crying out loud? Mitsui thinks but suddenly remembers that he's giving Rukawa a talk-to-the-hand attitude that day.

'Rukawa, right?' Sakuragi says.

Mitsui's jaw falls open. How the fuck did he know?

'I know he's grating on you,' Sakuragi's curling lips seam into an even more mischievous grin.

'What the fuck are you babbling about?' Mitsui asks. Deep inside, his temper is boiling to the thermometer's tiptop.

'Nothing. I just thought I saw you oggling at him like an idiot for a split second, or was it for a split second? a minute? an hour? The whole time?' Sakuragi mocks. His sarcasm can have equaled that of Rukawa's, only it's a bit too pungent for Mitsui's patience.

Mitsui stays quiet, withstanding shock in silence. Me? Was I looking at him the whole time without knowing it? How come Sakuragi noticed it? Oh, this is fucking weak.

'I've nothing against you being a closet...fag, Mitchy. But please, not Rukawa. You deserve a lot better than that salty crab. He's a good for nothing type of you know what. I mean, he's nothing more than a skipping fox in hibernation, you'll get nothing from him,' Sakuragi says, masking on sincerity and concern.

'Nose out, Sakuragi. It's my fucking problem.' Mitsui replies.

'You know, my friends always tell me; the pain of rejection runs longest and deepest...I think you should know that too.' Sakuragi says. Surprisingly, he is looking serious.

'Don't prattle. I know what I'm doing.' Mitsui answers succinctly. I've got a whole herd of big time tads skirting behind me so don't give me shit for advice; I'm not the one who's been downed 50 times.

'Yeah, right. Like hitting on Rukawa is straight genius.' Sakuragi hits back.

'Sakuragi, do me a favor and cut the crap.'

'Fine. Thanks for listening, crab-pumping son of a gun.' At that, Sakuragi walks out.

Mitsui stands up and heads for the next class. This time, he is sure he passes by Rukawa without looking at him.

TBC 


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Disclaimer: I don't own SD boys, Inoue does. The events that follow are not included in the original plot but enjoy anyway. (Hindi ako ang nagmamayari ng mga tauhan ng SD, si Inoue ang gumawa sa kanila. Ang mga sumusunod na pangyayari ay hindi kasama sa tunay na istorya pero magsaya ka na lang sa pagbabasa '--')

Disclaimer 2: Title's not mine, too. It's from the Bible so don't fine me.

Disclaimer 3: Gap apparell does not belong to me so don't put me behind bars for using the brand's name.

A/N: This is inedited so bear with the errors. Sexual content (very slight, though) can be appalling to certain concerned readers.

Warning: F words still all over.

--

Thursday. 7:45 in the afternoon. Y theatre movie house.

'I told you we shouldn't have taken that short cut,' Kiyota Nobunaga gibes openly as he brushes off dirty specks from his elegant Gap turtleneck sweat shirt.

Mitsui frowns a little. He is strapped in an even more ravishing outfit; crimson rock star shirt and drop-dead gorgeous boot-leg jeans. You could easily top him with something sweet and, well, eat him whole.

'Hey, if I wasn't sharp enough to cull down that route for us we would've made ourselves a laughing stock of Kanagawa in no time. Imagine what type of hell we would've gone through explaining why we're out together on a Thursday night for a damned movie,' he tips in as if to boil up a tirade.

'Which explains why you have to duck all the time people pass us by.' Kiyota barks scornfully. 'Tell me, are you that shamefaced to be seen around on a date with Kanagawa's best rook?'

'Oh come on, Nobunaga, don't go bristling off like you don't know what we're in for; I'm from Shohoku, you're from Kainan. What would people say if we act like sick lovebirds before their eyes? You see, there's no easy chair for us to sit on with them gawking at us.' Mitsui jolts back in a headlong pitch without whittling off his voice's volume.

'Fine.' Kiyota cuts in. 'In the meantime though, since we're in a movie house, why don't we just stop poking around, drop the codswallop out of our hubbub, and go watch a movie?' he finishes sarcastically with random hand gestures brandished with absurd exaggerations.

'Good idea.' Mitsui says half heartedly. How he hates it when this boy plays with words and all that.

Kiyota Nobunaga plods through the crowd of lined up ticket buyers to get two for both of them. 2 minutes later he's back.

'The film's R-18. I don't think your mom would be dead stoked if she learns about this,' Mitsui tells Kiyota who just shrugs casually and says,

'Yeah. Like I'm telling her,' Kiyota nags, baring the obstreperous sarcasm of his tone.

Mitsui studies him in disbelief.

'Okay. I told mom I was in for a midnight training with coach Takato. A cinch. Happy now?' Kiyota confesses. He is looking entirely bugged by Mitsui's meticulous glance which somehow makes him look uniquely cuter than ever.

'You lied to your mom?' Mitsui asks.

'Yeah, big deal?' Kiyota looks at him as if to smile derisively. 'Don't be a captious weasel, Hisashi, as if I got another choice--Mom, my boyfriend's asking me out on a movie, will you let me?--you think she'd let me?'

'I'm not talking about the boyfriend thing. I mean the film, Nobunaga, you can't see it; you're only 16.' Mitsui protests but Kiyota just drags him inside the theatre.

Mitsui is downright reluctant to take this seriously. For one thing, Kiyota takes him more like as a nanny than a boyfriend. But for what it's worth, he feels oddly satisfied to perform servile duties for the younger lad. They help themselves to their seats and pairs of colas and popcorns.

'Hisashi?'

'Yes?'

'I love you very much.'

'I love you, too.'

Earlier that day. 7:25 in the morning. Shohoku practice gym.

Kaede Rukawa rips past Mitsui's stable defense and heaves an unflappable, heart-stopping last second shot. Rukawa's team wins over Mitsui's.

'Team A wins. 64-62' Ayako hails. A narrow miss; just a cursed basket behind the win. Damn.

'Fuck it. That whore's calf's got enough demonic speed to topple over this MVP shooter. How can I make him eat shit with this stamina?' Mitsui thinks of Rukawa. He has just been turned down by the younger lad for the umpteenth time in 2 different levels; date and basketball.

His eyes comb over Rukawa's harrowed body as the latter slouches off on a folding chair along the courtside. Swaddled in a sleeveless training shirt and a pair of really short shorts, Rukawa is a picture perfect of your slightly clad dream guy, ready to be pounced on anytime. Mitsui's restraints refuse to flank him from Rukawa's tantalizing form and motion; his charms drive the onset of the unquenchable impulse inside Mitsui to slide his arm around the freshman's slender shoulders, to gracefully run his fingers down his flexing muscles, to gently wipe off his drooping sweat, to touch those pale lips with his, to slyly strip him naked to the skin and...oh yeah. Suddenly, Rukawa rises from his layoff and peels away to the locker room. Mitsui doesn't take time to entertain second thoughts and trails behind him. Inside, Rukawa faces his locker and rashly turns loose on his shirt to change to a less worn one. His bare torso produces a spectacular sensation fidgeting inside the senior's already feverish stomach; his rigorous male hormones are doing it again, alright. This makes him smile unconsciously as he canters along Rukawa's direction.

'You're not telling me to yank off this time. I'm at you,' Mitsui hisses as he closes the door behind him and moves forward Rukawa close enough to hear his breathing.

'Oh yeah?' Rukawa shoots back in his usual palling, still bare to the top. He's been caught off guard; they're all alone in the same room now.

'Uh-huh. This is the day when YOU finally say yes to Mr. Go-getter,' Mitsui darts in, spanking his palm against the nearby locker door to corner the other's view. Rukawa has to swing it with Mitsui now or he'd have to put up with the shit this hell-raiser would later give him.

'Jerk off, loser.' Rukawa says in a habitual glower.

Wrong move. Mitsui strides a step closer and clutches Rukawa's arms; their thighs almost brushing up against each other.

'You don't have much grit to give me this time, boy. You cocksure you can refuse me?' Mitsui sneers. Over confidence gets the better of him. 'Oh, what the hell, nobody says no to me anyway,'

'I just did. Move out.' Rukawa says as he breaks free from Mitsui's grip and slips in to a new shirt. He starts to head for the door but Mitsui's just too quick for him.

In a split second, Mitsui does the unthinkable; he overtakes Rukawa, raises his chin up, and gives him a one second lips locked kiss. Never has he kissed anyone without his assent or even forced anyone to do so. When he wants to give it a go, it's always his partner who takes initiative; not him. This could've turned out to be a blow on his already bruised pride but it would've been too lame for him to let the opportunity go by, so instead of sticking to the old ways, he does otherwise.

'I don't kiss people for nothing, Rukawa. You'd have to pay me for that,' he says after regaining momentum.

'Pay YOU for fucking me?' Rukawa glares in blank disbelief. 'Get lost, arsehead,'

'I'm not fucking you until you say yes to me. I'm not a drag-tailed cheap shot at least,' Mitsui argues.

Rukawa gives him a meaningful look and turns away; 'This is what fuck-thinking gives to disillusioned people when they're out of fuck buddies to sleep with.' his eyes tell him.

Mitsui feels an increment of add up shame heaped upon him despite being full of himself. Still, he's heating up inside, itching to hurl invectives at Rukawa.

'I'm not short of nightly sex to be shoved off just like that, foxy. I can damn well give you what you're asking for even before you've gone on a blink with that fucked up sneakers of yours.'

'Fuckever. Keep telling yourself that.' At that, Rukawa walks out.

A/N: I did warn you about the obscenities, but you're still entitled to flame me with all your gripes. Thanks for reading. I'm still no perv, right?

TBC 


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter V

Disclaimer: I don't own SD boys, Inoue does. The events that follow are not Included in the original plot but enjoy anyway.

A/N: Readers, 1000 times sorry for the delay. I've been on salary for the last few weeks and I just couldn't allot enough hours to write. You should know how I suck in time management. Anyway, this chappie is a little too mawkish even for my taste (and to think that I'm a pathetic hopeless romantic). There's just too much heart in it that I can't throw a nice quip between the lines to make you guys laugh at least. Oh well, here it goes.

Warning: language and mushiness.

--

7:15 PM. Somewhere along a winding avenue in the city of Kanagawa...

...Hisashi Mitsui strolls aimlessly among the enormity of the capital's skyscrapers. Alone and in the binge of self-pity, he feels like a stray kitten in an anthropocentric world of hypocrisy and Asiatic hedonism where Fridays are tremendously glutted with the most socially well off couples savoring their get-together weekends. This isn't how it should be for Mitsui; while he is the undisputed Casanova of all philosophers (or loving men for that matter) on regular weekdays, today he's no more than a diffident loner combating hopelessness and boredom. Needless to say, the infuriating picture torments him; Kissing lovers hugging one another in tight clutches, their hands slyly exploring the most intimate extents of their entwined bodies, their skin rubbing against one another's in a heated friction of erupting passion, desire-Darn! Yes. His fridays are vacant; No Fujima, no Maki, no Sendoh, and no Kiyota to sidle up to him and tell him 'I love you very much' to which he'd mechanically reply 'I love you too,' when in fact he's still groping between 'I don't' and 'Maybe.' Cheating is one thing he can't do without in this colorful, young adulthood stage. But hey, what gives? Not much. These boys are over their heads for handsome Mitsui anyway. Now that's much.

He then pushes a furlong of robust strides to reach the heart of the city; the wire and steel fenced street ball court. So much for expecting it to be empty, he almost jumps back upon witnessing a skyward rolling 180 slam from that someone who's occupying the otherwise crowd-less court and strutting his stuff in front of a non existent audience. Who else among Kanagawa boys can cover that spire of vertical distance in a normal leap? He probably knows who this kid is. True enough, Kaede Rukawa lands soundlessly underneath the orange rim. The nearby lamp post casts its revealing light on him; he's flung with his gray, walking shirt and dark blue Shohoku jogging pants. It seems to Mitsui that destiny hinges them together by the centrifugal force that sets itself in motion, the same feeling desperate suitors own when they're in the verge of getting ditched.

'Kaede,' Mitsui calls as he putters forward the freshman.

'Sempai?' Rukawa says in his customary stuffed-in-a-coffin tone as he wheels around to face his senior.

'Uhmm,' Mitsui falters to thread up anything interesting to say, 'There's a regulation regarding curfew hours and play time. I think you've gone out of bounds balling after 7.' Kanagawa does inhibit playing basketball after 7.

Rukawa just hands him a don't-know-don't-care look and clasps the ball to his hampered fingers to snipe an open 13 footer jumper inside the paint. Swack. Ok, here he is again tottering with his typical I'm-the-best-rook in Kanagawa nonchalance, and not even the authorities can tell him off. Cold blood he's got.

'Ok. Hisashi, don't clam up. A snobbish nod won't kill you,' Mitsui admonishes himself as he watches Rukawa smoothly glide off the midair expanse embracing him. Now what exactly comes to mind when all you've been looking for in a state of dejecting solitude suddenly materializes before you in an optimum view of perfection? Forget that he's panzer in a slew of heavy clothing; he looks fiery! Here you are on a mean, hazy evening when all of a sudden the inimitable captain of your dreams appears before you as if to offer his un-owned proximity to you. And to cinch it all, both of you are alone. Period. It doesn't matter if there exists the biting paradox; you desire him, he despises you. what counts is that an unhindered, omnipotent gravity holds you stable against a raging whirlpool of contradictory feelings. At last for Mitsui, his longstanding dream is no far cry from where he is; in fact. it's just a wink away now.

'But this isn't the time to make a pass at him or to even cook up a sweltering conjecture on how good it feels inside him,' Mitsui muses. Of course, it's still a little too early to hit a go with someone who's downed you for Christ knows how many times. It's high time he drives things to the friendlier slope of the plane; take it a little smoother, gentler, softer...make him feel you deserve the potential pleasures in store for you.

Mitsui then plunks himself down on the courtside benches; a mental fatigue is drying the blood out of him. Rukawa, however, goes on plugging away with each drive to the bucket attack. After awhile, he grows dead wrung out skittering around with the ball on his hands, and decides he can make do with a quick time out. He lolls himself beside Mitsui; he's pretty much able to retain his dull complacence even when the other's around though.

'Alright, Hisashi, make your move now or remain busted for good.' Mitsui mutters to himself as Rukawa's ensconced body is fully emblazoned for him to see. Wow. This sure slaps awake your outgoing energy; if Rukawa gets any hotter than this, Mitsui will sure be a smoking crimson lobster freshly hot off the grill.

Mitsui then distills himself from where he's been sitting on and canters across the court. He picks up the ball Rukawa has left earlier, positions himself on the central 3 point mark, bends his knees on a 45 angle, raises his ball arm, and releases a twirling, so and so mph jumper that barely shakes the net as it grazes the still basket. Rukawa's eyes steal into those beautiful, subtle moves. On the surface, he maintains his I-don't-fucking-care pace quite impressively, but deep inside is another story. True, this very same Hisashi Mitsui is a serious pest, a noxious criminal who's getting an unnecessary stand-up and motorized arousal at the sight of Kaede Rukawa. He's unquestioningly detestable. Period. All neatly strung in a thread. But hang on; there's a slight nuance in Rukawa's genuine feeling of disgust for Mitsui. Not just that, an anomaly is lurking between these sentiments and he makes a neglected oversight of this; under the layer, his breath is taken away by this lady/lad killer when the latter is out there working on his business of nailing down countless threes and soft shots. Something's simply got to give.

Mitsui calls to Rukawa who seems to have dozed off in an unfathomable reverie. He's just found a solution to their problem.

'Rukawa,'

'One on one?' Mitsui says. It isn't a request; it's more like a general's order to the marine corps.

'If I win, you're mine. If you do...' Mitsui breathes deeply. 'I won't be giving you hell anymore. Promise.' He finishes, half expecting a no-means-no answer from the freshman.

But Rukawa remains motionless. It's not his lot to turn down a one on one game unless he intends to be the next day's certified craven. But acceding to Mitsui's proposal is like falling on either side of a double edged knife; if Rukawa loses, he becomes the possessed or even a--gulp--sex slave to this magnetic hottie, if he wins, then maybe he'll regret it later on not putting the make on someone like Hisashi Mitsui. For Rukawa, this isn't the sort of job that's done in a once-over trial. Clearly, nothing's settled in a one on one game; the matter of love must not rest on the battle of skills. It should be broached in a thorough and open minded talk and not in some medieval approach of solving the problem like a head to head match.

'I'm not game. Go play alone,' Rukawa says suddenly, feeling the urge to leave on the spot. He doesn't want to talk but he'd rather do it that way than go one on one to settle something so crucial.

'No.' Mitsui interjects sternly. 'We have to come to an understanding and this is how to do it. Either you're mine from now on or not ever.'

'Let's talk then,' Rukawa answers, finally voicing himself out.

A protracted silence reigns undisturbed. Something subliminal is provoked by Rukawa's reply; for the first time, he offers to talk and this may be a forerunner of other changes in his ill disposed character. Perhaps a spiritual evolution is taking over him. At last.

'What more can I say to you?' Mitsui bursts out suddenly. 'Do I have to go through ancient history discussing how much I'm turned on by you? Rukawa, I'm sure you know those lectures by heart without flipping through the pages, and as always you're turning a stiff neck to me. Fuck knows what I've been through with all your don't-fucking-care retorts, and both of us are already stuffed being fed up with it. Now don't tell me you want to talk it over for damnation's sake! I've been hustling my ass off all these months to communicate but all you've been doing is to look at me like I'm a filthy rat and walk out. I didn't just try to talk to you as in try to seduce you with my coaxes, but I made a point of making you FEEL that I'm all for you. How can we start a nice friendly conversation here when you can't even volunteer a syllable to me? Can't you see it's time to take matters my way? I know this isn't what you and I have bargained for but I don't think we can afford another solution to this shit. Just get it on with me and hit it off. Please. (Phew, I never got this much hell from Fujima or Sendoh or Kiyota. Maki's a little hard though.)'

'And if I win?' Rukawa asks absentmindedly.

'Like I said; You're go, I'm not stalking you anymore.' Says Mitsui. There's enough conviction in it to pass for sincerity. He's serious and looking ready for a loss.

At that precise moment, Rukawa's heart changes, its stiffness leaching away in a nameless void. A resounding quietness rests itself between them as Rukawa's insides suffer from an unremitting commotion; the symptoms of frailty are now ruling the realms inside his body. He tries to deny the feeling, but his heart continues to misgive him as it draws near to the person before him. He isn't sure if it's pity or love that's clouding around him but at that very second, he learns not to look at Hisashi Mitsui as a stranger, and he wants to be with him for the time being.

'Okay.' Rukawa starts. 'You win the game.'

TBC 


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter VI Disclaimer: I don't own SD boys, Inoue does. The events that follow are not included in the original plot but enjoy it anyway

A/N: Inedited so bear with the countless errors.

Friday. 7:20 PM. Kanagawa basketball park.

For a minute and a half, Mitsui roots himself in a standstill, his mind in a chilled stupor against what seems to be a prolonged, muted bedlam. Until something inside his skull gives way...

'What!' he gasps. An incessant shiver creeps its way through his core muscular areas, rummaging and drilling his fleshy fibers in freakish excitement. Radical disbelief is the singular, rightful reaction; it's all too good to be true.

He looks askance at Rukawa a full 50 times, pondering or striving to. He tries to absorb much of the words 'You win.' But his conflicted state of mind fails to maw down the whole of it. His cockeyed dreams are fabricating into bold reality, finally.

'I don't want to play. You win,' Tritely and plainly, Rukawa liberates a reticent, subzero coolness. 'It doesn't matter. Just do what you like,' He finishes. So okay, he's still girth with his traditional passive expression but he can't get heavier on those words; he's vented enough seriousness to make a fluke out of it and he's never the ilk who clowns around anyway. Just try to clap an eye on his steady face; no sneer, no scornful brow raising, no stare-down, no nose up, and no low blows from his ever filthy mouth. Everything's suddenly jumping on a fine line of harmonic tunes; he wants him, he wants him too. Neat. Just neat.

'Rukawa, are you sure about this?' Mitsui wobbles, slightly doubting the authenticity of the other's intonations. He still can't ascribe any absolute meaning to Rukawa's words and he's getting impatient as seconds drift to minutes.

Rukawa rocks a pithy, out-of-character nod.

This can't be, Mitsui thinks. His ears and eyes are playing dirty tricks on him. The story's sensational enough to get anyone out of whack; the uppity superstar cum floor mopper of Shohoku High is finally saying yes to aggressive Mr. Ball Buster. The news can've graced the cover of Tokyo Today and even go for the headline but senior press Yayoi Aida isn't around for a piece of this tasty novelty. Oh well, it's that incredible.

'I can't get the hang of it.' Mitsui says.

'I just said yes.' Rukawa spats. 'What, don't want it?' he finishes almost stridently, seeming to have lost half his interest in Mitsui. Nevertheless, the blind animosity he's long been nurturing for this equally haughty, modern day Narcissus is taking a whole new vision. Actually, it's taken a turn-around position; Mitsui's no longer his personal demon and his repulsive anti-pole, but someone more significant and worth...loving? Perhaps.

'Well,' Mitsui starts as he pries open an electrifying, angelic smile. He gives a good hard swig to peddle up the right words to say. 'I know I may have deserved your assent in the long run but...I didn't-never once thought that it'd be a...well, a piece of cake, you know...' He stutters, smiling apologetically at each short lived interlude. He's too hard pressed to show his gratitude to Rukawa and the fact that he owes the freshman for his consent is no light load.

'What, you're declining?' Rukawa snarls.

'No, no, no!' Mitsui hurtles on. 'It's just that...you have something to forgive. I mean, I fucked you over pretty badly and it'll be a little too skewed if I latch on the chance just like that...so...' He falters.

Mitsui has an unusual penchant for challenges, and getting Rukawa may have been the toughest course. But things don't run in accordance to the expected status quo this time; Rukawa's not playing hard to get, in fact he's scratching Mitsui's back instead of acting like the spiteful protagonist in this helter-skelter story. If anything, Mitsui deserves to be decked into a bloody pulp for whatever harassment he's done to Rukawa before, truly.

'Just go point blank.' Rukawa hisses in a vexed monotone. He too, is up in the air in what the other means. He tautly fixes his cheeks in a headstrong surface as a stroke of skepticism becomes apparent in each brow twitching. He's getting hot under the collar and a good deal of waffling will all the more broil his skin.

'Er, uhm...ok,' Mitsui decides to right the target finally. 'I'm sorry, dead sorry to have given you that much hell when you wouldn't come to me. I acted pretty much like a cracked nut back then and I...well, I hope you'll forgive me and I...I promise I won't screw up, I...you know what,' Mitsui says in all honesty like a renewed extravagant lover. He can've accidentally entailed the last phrase with an 'I love you,' but his inborn pride stifles the onsent and he ends up yakking away in hesitation and getting it all riled up.

Rukawa scowls but makes a point of showing that all has been forgiven simply because he can't quite recall the majority of those hell times when Mitsui was harassing him. But still, something irritates him; 'Why didn't he (Mitsui) just needle up a single-line apology instead of squabbling like a moronic imp?' Rukawa thinks.

Mitsui smiles at this. He knows only too well that Rukawa is terribly allergic to scenes of sappy love plots like this one; he's always been the mighty scorcher of mushy tales and only hell knows how he dreads being a cast. This isn't going to be easy for Hisashi Mitsui. But who cares a dime? They're the newest couple in town and are therefore obligated to call for a celebration, right?

Mitsui immediately offers a night stroll along the town; nothing can be more satisfying than that for a just-pronounced couple like them. They begin to cover the silent sidewalks, keeping a minimum distance from each other. Mitsui longs to rest his arm on Rukawa's shoulders. Rukawa remains stiff as if mimicking a rolling boulder. But this turns out to be the luckiest day for Mitsui; he can rest assured now. Everything (or everyone for that matter) is efficiently caught in his net and this mere fact gives him a higher justification to all the more strike an I'm-too-sexy-for-this-love strut every accursed second. Now that's a pretty accurate definition of luck.

Late night comes. They settle themselves inside Kingsha Coffee shop near 6th avenue, inexplicably happily. Mitsui lights up a stick as both peg down the 4th table. Exactly on his third sip, he stops dead; behind the translucence of the thick smoke puttering out from his lips, some ten meters away from where he and Rukawa are, Akira Sendoh, Mitsui's sophomore lover, is carelessly flirting with someone else on the 7th table, their hands tangled in a loose lock. The Ryonan Ace's smile projects a heavenly innocence brandished with an all-the-time-in-the-world composure which almost sends the Shohoku senior in an instant tantrum. Mitsui's fingers sink deeper on his palm as his cigarette becomes reduced in pathetic ashes due to the scrubbing heat crawling out from his enraged lips. He can't eat it all up; 'So this is what I get after accomplishing the steepest feat of the millennium; catching your favorite boy in somebody else's arms. He thinks, not realizing that he's in the same degree of treachery with Sendoh. How can he do this to Mitsui? He clenches his teeth, hard enough to crack their ivory-surfaced material.

About this time, Sendoh has already caught his eyes. The sophomore smiles; obviously apoplectic from guilt and shock. Mitsui manages a snide smile in return, bitter however, and places an arm on Rukawa's shoulder. Sendoh freezes, understands the gesture, and lets go of his companion's hand. Mitsui's lips curl in a wider, more boat-like breadth. Sendoh's smile vanishes; his unknown lover turns to look where Sendoh's eyes are. Mitsui learns who it is.

It isn't Hiroaki Koshino; It's someone else dear to him.

TBC 


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter VII

Disclaimer: I don't own SD boys, Inoue does. The events that follow are not included in the original plot but enjoy anyway.

Warning: Language. Inedited; expect errors.

Kenji Fujima swivels his head back and receives the shock of his life. He fails to veil the startled expression of his face upon clashing eyes with Mitsui; his mouth barely zipped open in silent horror and his eyes flickering and moist with gruesome fear. He feels utterly ripped asunder, like a thin sheet of paper forcefully seared into 2 halves; one half wanting to melt away in retreat, the other hankering for redress. He is very unlike Sendoh in handling the matter (because of the mere fact that he neglects Rukawa who's being fondled by Mitsui). That at least is one thing; instead he acknowledges Mitsui's anger and moves further away from the sophomore, out of deference. But Sendoh is thick as thieves, stickling to get even as he watches the sardonic glare playing on Mitsui's eyes. He automatically snucks a knitted, almost vengeful brow at Mitsui as if to inoculate to the senior the contagious feeling of a just-acquired disgust he harbors for him. It's just right to place us in an even footing; after all who's inflicted the more serious damage? Me or him? Neither; if he's pulling a nasty little game with Rukawa, I'm doing the same with Fujima. We're in a fine equilibrium, and if it becomes too equal, as science proves, each side tends to repel each other, like a magnet. Yes, antagonism is the key; from now on Hisashi Mitsui and Akira Sendoh are completely polarised, and if someone tries to put us together...a colossal spark, a massive explosion...Only then is our business with each other gets buried; only after the quake. Sendoh muses in quietude while sitting vis-à-vis with the senior, meters apart however. But both Sendoh and Fujima know less; all they know is that however they feel, it is independent of each other, completely disconnected and isolated from the cord that binds.

Mitsui's already flushed cheeks turn puce in subdued anger, knowing only too well each plane of the multi-faceted story; exemplar teenage icon Kenji Fujima is out on a starry Friday night with coxcomb lady killer Akira Sendoh while both are still and actively putting the make on Hisashi Mitsui. He trammels himself by the thought, slowly bathing himself in indulgent wrath as he bats an eye at the annoying couple at table 7. How long have they been whapping away every night making a shit out of me? What the fuck do they think they're playing at? A child's play? Fuck, they'll be doomed before they get a joint straight on that fucking table...He ponders diabolically.

He dies to subjugate the exorbitant fury rushing out from his insane pulse with the usual I-don't-give-a-fuck cold look, like a steel sluice pitting itself against a deluge of gushing river. But the immodest infidelity being displayed there is beyond pardon, beyond retribution, and it's only fit to deem vengeance as the singular panacea for this parlous anger. Such antipathy he's never had all his life nor imagined is taking hold of him as he sits starkly on the stiff stool, held rigid under duress by a consuming power of hate, dark and deadly. It then suddenly occurs to him that Rukawa's with him; and this makes it more complicated. He has to check his brash, prudish self before the freshman learns anything and right now, he's giving all might to contain himself. But Rukawa sits unruffled, seeming not to care or even to know any of the absurdity of the moment. What a cold blooded dog he is. Mitsui sighs, nonplussed by Rukawa's sheer demeanor.

Suddenly, out of the short-lived stillness, Fujima raises himself up, realizing he can take no more of this satirical farce. He excuses himself to the restroom and charily slides away from the scene with a palpitating nervous heart. Spineless git that he is. Sendoh continues to make irksome eye contact with Mitsui who's assumed a provocative, almost venomous glare.

Why is that good for nothing li'l devil with you? Sendoh's eyes tell him, referring to Rukawa.

Mitsui catches the beck and with a thwarting, haughty glance, he answers in mental transmission,

Because it's a hundred times more fucking fun to be with him in hell than to be out in a utopian paradise with a brain-dead magpie like you. You blab so much it's dirt to my ears, and I wouldn't be surprised if that jerk-off cad beside you conks right off in boredom with your little quibble.

Sendoh cringes a little, finds a way to regain ascendancy, and through a suffusing vibration from his eyes, exclaims,

Fine. I never thought you have a fetish for monosyllabic arse heads like Kaede Rukawa, that's a new one. And one more thing, Fujima's a thousand times more enjoyable than you'd ever be. You're a truck of bagatelles to my daily sched, really, you're palling me.

Mitsui makes no effort to confute this, but takes a great one at wanton assault. With a perfect attempt to equanimity, he blips an evil piquant smile that seems to reply: Oh yeah. Looks like we've arrived to a final conclusion here; we're even. You both take your road and I'll take mine; I've had my share of the prize, leave me alone with Rukawa.

And with an I'll-get-back-at-you-later-on look at Sendoh, Mitsui grabs Rukawa by the arm and flees from the infernal coffee shop.

Fujima comes back to Sendoh. Neither offer a word to the other; both are in a pinnacle of indiscernible guilt and shame to be starting even a short idle talk. And with a mutual look at each other, they decide to call it a night.

Next day, Saturday morning. Hisashi Mitsui's room.

Mitsui plops himself on the bed by the telephone, abiding the first call from either of the two, Fujima and Sendoh. He expects more of the former to ring him because he and Sendoh have already come to a half understanding last night through the mind and look altercation they had, but it seems that something is still not in the clear. And withal, there is no warrant that every message has been transported effectively. So he waits, and it seems that the clockwork is over even before he hears a twang from the receiver. Seconds fly so slowly, minutes aren't better, let alone hours; the hands of time turn again and again, from 1 to 2, from 2 to 3, from 3 to 4...from one digit ad infinitum. But he's losing it; a moment doesn't stretch to eternity, it isn't malleable enough to do so. He's just growing too impatient and too vulnerable to be coping up with this momentary recluse life imposed on him; it's his impotence to mitigate his heart's gall and to withstand solitude that's been downing him, and he refuses to look it. So much the worse for him.

He forces himself to meditate on this pitfall; all he could do is to foster self pity. The silence seems so demeaning, the milieu so rancid, and this utter seclusion so offensive and...desexualizing-

RING...RING...RING...RING...

Let the answering machine take care of it; I've lost enough of the rudimentary knack to enter to a man-to-man conversation. He whines quietly.

He hears his own voice spring from the receiver,

'Hi, Hisashi here. I'm not home right now. Just leave me a message...'

Then flows a familiar, unexpected voice as it recites non-stop words that seem to belong to a drama series script; like an actor berating his lover for lacking everything required of him.

'Hisashi, where the heck are you! I've been ringing you 30 minutes straight last night and you wouldn't pick the damned phone up. How the fuck d'you expect me to contact you? I've been getting all fucked up hearing the same record stuffed in that fucking receiver and still no you. Shit. You're making a hell out of this ugly life of ours, really. If we carry on still like this I swear I'm taking somebody else for good company. You never speak to me unless I force you to, and always you're cold as cola. You don't smile either, you just sulk and snort and frown and glower. And I'm always the one who's calling you up, not once a call for me from you. Sad. We're not getting anywhere, honestly, and you're becoming out of touch each day. Even I myself am incredulous how I'm getting along with you; you're so easy to crack and hard to please and... Sigh. Anyway, I just want-

The querulous harangue is cut off suddenly. Then the speaker sounds again to lease the same histrionic voice,

'Damn, you should allot more time for messages. I don't know what I'm gonna do with you; your case is irreparable, truly. Anyway, I just want my Nike windbreaker back. The red one, if you can't recall; I lent it to you last Thursday and I forgot to take it back. You can take it here anytime before next Wednesday so I'll be expecting you within that time, clear? Well, that's it. Hope you're still alive. Bye.'

And the line goes dead. It was Nobunaga. So he wants his jacket back. He'll have it. Mitsui thinks desultorily, seeming to have lost all wits to reflect properly. This time he can take neither a block nor a modicum of it; he dials Kenji Fujima's number, 8312866.

3 rings, then,

'Hisashi?' Comes Fujima's sure voice. He's been expecting this and he's grown tedious of waiting. He wants to tell Mitsui he intended to ring him, but doesn't have the guts to get started.

'Yes. I reckon you know what topic I'm discussing to you today, don't you?' Mitsui hisses austerely.

'There's too many to guess from.' Fujima answers as if in remonstration, but his voice is so calm one will think nothing's on foot.

'Really? I can only pluck up one.' Mitsui says mordantly with a don't-beat-around-the-bush tone. Deep inside or from the other end rather, he's gnawing his teeth feverishly as if to whet himself for a final attack. He's only too indignant to express boorishness and so he resorts to sarcasm.

'What is it?' Fujima asks laconically, having found no word to venture.

'Sure isn't the weather; there's nothing new to it, 'cept that I feel it's gonna be awful this day, don't you think?'

'Hope not. But what is it?'

'I marvel at you; that you'd have the balls to play I-don't-know-what-you're-cackling-about after being caught red handed catting around with that Ryonan bloke, that vainglorious jackrabbit, of all fucking pricks! Fuck heavens, Fujima, don't horse around with me.' Mitsui roars.

'True. Hisashi, I already know how angry you are so please spare me your vehemence, violence, whatever. What we need is to talk. You may not want to hear from me again but I guess...' Fujima stammers, confounded by the other's crude effrontery.

'You guess what? Tell me about it.' Mitsui says in pure hauteur, suddenly able to gather up his broken pieces.

'I guess,' Fujima begins. 'you never will and so it ends there.' He finishes in taciturn candor.

'Yeah. I'm never the kind to listen, anyway. And what d'you make of yourself if I'm that?' Mitsui wails in reproof, like an instructor demanding a correct answer from his pupils after getting all ones wrong.

'A lowdown cheater.' Fujima says meekly, his voice shaking with remorse. 'I think it's what you and I want to hear here, right?'

This self-abnegation almost brings him to tears as Mitsui feels the other's loneliness despite their distance. He decides to tone himself down.

'No. Not that.' Mitsui answers in soft protest.

'Then what did you call for?'

'To find peace, I guess. But I just learned I'll never get it from you.'

'I can't. Even I can't give that to myself.' Fujima says, scantly revealing the initial fear he has just felt. 'Hisashi,'

'Yes?'

'Let's call it quits.'

Mitsui sucks in his breath, but his chest can no longer take a gram. It seems that a cry will inevitably come out but nothing is emitted for awhile until Fujima incites an exchange of words with a sober sigh. Mitsui wakes up from his faint swoon.

'Of course that's the only way to solve this quandary.' He says. This time, he arrogates to himself the subordination to one's will; and it surprises Fujima as Mitsui goes on, 'You're always right, you know it.'

'I'm the one who's wronged this time. Not you; that of course isn't right.'

'Yes. But you always know how to act right.'

Fujima remains silent. Mitsui goes on.

'My head's still hot within me. You can talk to me some time later if you feel there's something else left untouched between us, but now...Bye.'

They say goodbye. Two down, two to go.

The place seems to Mitsui ravaged by a whirlpool, the atmosphere evilly occult and dark; even the imaginary sounds are a combination of thunder and lightning chased by a gust of wind, howling threateningly like the rapacious hounds of hell honing to mangle every available flesh. Everything's crashing down on him like an avalanche assailing the hedges of an icy mountain, like a tidal wave devouring the coast, like a flood of smoldering lava descending down the hill to devastate the flatlands... All because Fujima jilted him. He doesn't know what to think but knows well he deserves this sadness; 'This is my comeuppance; I should take whatever consequence lays ahead of me.' he says to himself. His brain feels like being drilled, like someone just came looking for something in it but didn't find any because there's nothing in it in the first place. He wants to forget, to forget and not to forgive. But to be vindictive and unforgiving means he has to care and he doesn't want to care anymore. He just wants to be-

Ring...ring...ring...

The phone rings again. Something in its repetition gives him a presentiment of another hard blow; he wishes to elude the sound but it sticks more adhesively to his sensorium, poking his depressor nerves like a bug digging an excavation on his brain...the clanging pains him, and he wants to jam it with a sickle or a hammer but that isn't like what it is not to care; if he doesn't give a tinker's curse about it he should be numb, immune from the irritation it conduces but...

'Hello?' Mitsui says as he picks it up, trying hard to sound composed.

'Sempai?' Comes a voice, saturnine as the hollow skies and cold as clabber. But it's music to Mitsui ears, like a blowing pipe, like a celestial harp, like the clear sound of ice falling on water; beautiful, beloved voice...

'Kaede?' Mitsui asks in wonder, his pulse beat increasing its velocity each millisecond.

'Hai.'

'Nice to hear from you, how was last night?'

All his worries seem to float away with the clouds, away from him, away from his Universe. This voice is all he needs for a remedy; it's all he needs to lift up the plaintives that's been mortifying him since last night's hell. He smiles unconsciously, his mind revitelizing after being cramped down, his heart ceasing to care, finally forgetting...Delight after the storm; that's how it is.

'Okay.'

'Uhm...You need something?'

'Ballgame.'

'Ballgame?'

'With me, sempai.'

So Rukawa wants to play.

'Sure. When?'

'Now.'

Perfect. Perfect time to escape through heaven's stairs away from this inferno.

'Where you at?'

'Park.'

'Okay. In a minute.'

TBC

A/N: One line's an adaptation of Tolkien's in Silmarillion. Another one too from Murakami. Nike apparel isn't mine.


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